


and you see your gypsy

by hapsburgs



Category: American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F, i cried writing this so, post finale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapsburgs/pseuds/hapsburgs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after Misty Day's death, Cordelia Foxx is still grieving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you see your gypsy

**Author's Note:**

> post finale AU. Inspired by Fleetwood Mac as always. Still crying about Foxxay so I thought I'd write this.

"Delia, darling - I understand that you need some form of stress relief, but is it necessary to labor for hours in the sweltering sun like an Israelite building the pyramids?"  
    "Auntie Myrtle, can we talk about this later?" Cordelia leans back onto her haunches, squinting in the sun to look up at the redhead.  
    "You're going to fry out here, like Icarus, without a hat." Myrtle chides, taking off her own bright purple cloche and placing it on Delia's head. "What on earth are you planting?"  
    "Belladonna." She whispers, eyes focused down on the budding plants and garden hoe.  
    "A tribute to our very own white witch?" Myrtle inquires, moving her umbrella so it shelters the young Supreme from the sun.  
    "No, not to Stevie." Cordelia's hands dig harder into the dirt. A long pause, and then Myrtle sighs in frustration.  
    "Delia -  
    " _I don't want to talk about it._ " She snaps, harsher than she meant to. She feels Myrtle place a hand on her shoulder gently, and Delia tenses.  
    "Grieve as you wish, Delia." Myrtle steps away. "But it's been _months_ , darling. Don't let yourself hope."  
    She doesn't reply; just lets her teeth clench and press the dirt around the belladonna down harder. Myrtle's voice drifts back to her.       
    "Why you can't just take a Xanax and hole up in your greenhouse is beyond me."

* * *

She visits Misty's swamp a lot over the summer.  
    (It's no longer just 'the swamp'; it's _Misty's_ , and everything Misty is (' _is_ '; never, ever 'was')).  
    The humidity of the bayou causes her clothes to stick to her skin and her hair to frizz, but she hardly minds. Someone has to keep up Misty's dwelling in case she comes back, she tells herself, like that is the only reason she drives forty minutes north into the middle of nowhere once a week.  
    She makes sure to water all of Misty's plants just the way she likes them, keeps poachers away and checks in on all the animals Misty cared so much for. This swamp is the only peace she has; away from her work, away from her students. Here, Delia can sit and just _breathe_.  
    She sits on Misty's unkempt bed, curled in a ball and eyes trained on the urn that contains _Misty_ on the shelf next to one of Misty's Stevie Nicks posters. It felt fitting, to keep Misty in the swamp; it was where she was happiest, and Delia doesn't think she would be able to have all the students walk by Misty's ashes and ask so many _questions_.  
    She listens to the cicadas sing, breathes in the briny, stagnant air. And that's what she loves about Misty's swamp; time doesn't move here, and she can pretend that Misty is still alive and everything is all right.  
    She feels pathetic talking to Misty, but she does anyway.  
    "I can't be the Supreme, Misty." She whispers, her voice so loud in the empty shack. "I know you said I was a good leader, but I'm not. I don't know _how_."  
    Silence, as always - but what did she expect?  
    "You were the only person to ever believe in me." She exhales. "And now you're _gone_. I need you, but you're _gone!_ " Her voice sounds vaguely hysterical, and she takes a deep breath in an effort to calm down ( _how can she still be upset after all this time?_ ). "And you needed us, too. We were your tribe, Misty. _I_ was your tribe, and you were mine."  
    She can feel the tears beginning to prick in her eyes, so she does something she knows only Misty would do; she picks up that beloved shall that once belonged to Stevie Nicks herself (removed from Madison's possession after her death), turns on Fleetwood Mac, and _spins._  
    " _She is dancing away from me now_  
 _She was just a wish_  
 _She was just a wish_  
 _And a memory is all that is left for you now_ "  
    She spins faster and faster, her heading spinning and aching and feet wobbling, the world around her blurring until she swears she can see Misty in front of her.  
    She falls to her knees, Stevie Nicks still crooning ethereally in the background, and Cordelia _cries_.

* * *

 Cordelia was never a particularly drastic person, but something changed in her when she became Supreme.  
    That's really the only excuse she can give as she turns the hourglass over, lays on her bed, and descends into hell.

* * *

 Of course Fiona's there, berating her and screaming, but Cordelia is strong now, stronger than ever, and so she finds the will to push her aside and yell into the darkness.  
    " _Papa Legba_!" She calls out, taking the small bag out of her pocket and waving it temptingly. " _I have something for you_!"  
    And then everything seems to freeze, and there's a dark chuckle behind her.  
    "I didn't think you were the type, little girl." She turns, and there's Papa Legba himself, looking amused as ever.  
    "My mother kept a stash." She replies dully, shoving the bag of cocaine into his hands.  
    "What can I help you with, Miss Supreme?" He mocks, and she bristles.  
    "I want Misty Day back." She's surprised at the confidence in her own voice, but she tenses as Papa Legba laughs.  
    "The Cajun swamp witch? Girl, you have lost your mind!"  
    "I will give you anything, _everything_ that you want. Money, drugs, another soul -"  
    "Tempting offer, child, but no." His smile slips. "That's not how hell works."  
    "She doesn't deserve that suffering, and you know it." She seethes.  
    "Suffering?" He questions naively, and suddenly Cordelia can hear Misty's screams, and she freezes because _Misty_. "What suffering?"  
    " _Please_." Cordelia breaks, because now all she can do is beg. " _Please_ , give her back to me."  
    "Why are you so interested in the swamp witch?" Papa Legba asks with a smirk, like he knows but wants to hear her say it.  
    " _I love her_." It feels so strange to say it out loud, the words tasting odd but sweet on her tongue.  
    "Oh, child." His laughter has a touch of melancholy. "There is a way you can retrieve someone from hell, but making a deal with Papa Legba isn't one of them. Now, you better find your way back, or you'll be here forever, with no chance of seeing your beau."  
    The world is fading into darkness, Cordelia can hear Misty's cries again, and she's fighting against everything because _she needs more time_.  
    "And Cordelia Foxx," Papa Legba grins. " _Misty Day loves you too_."

* * *

Early morning sunlight is streaming through the curtains when Cordelia comes back with a gasp. Her hand immediately clamps over her mouth to muffle a sob.  
    "I will find a way, Misty." She whispers, hoping somehow Misty can hear her. " _I'll find you_."

* * *

 

  
_Well, lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice_   
_Ah, and it lights up the night_   
_And you see your gypsy_   
_You see your gypsy_


End file.
